Date With A Rockstar (14 page)

He taps forward and the game pauses. “You want to try a round?”

“I don't want to ruin your score or anything. I'd probably get killed right away.”

“Here, I have another memory chip you can use.” He steps down from the platform and pushes a button at the back of the device.

A cool girl would play this game and do well, but I have no experience. I don't want to mess up while he's watching. But when he motions me forward onto the platform, I take his place. He peels the tiny electrode off his forehead and sticks it on me.

“How do I start?”

“Here, I'll tap the button for you. Get your gun ready.” I grasp the transparent gun and my brain
interprets the object as real. I have no idea how any of this technology works.

“Pay attention,” he says and the game flickers to life.

Branches come at me as I walk. Twigs snap behind me and I run. The floor under my feet moves as I move. As the scenery changes, I believe the landscape. The green grid hits my eyes occasionally, but it's not blinding. I'm breathing hard, scanning the bushes for attackers. An animal screeches and I take a shot. Just then I feel a dart of pain in my shoulder blade, then the retort of another rifle.

“What the hell was that?” I let the gun swing down on the strap.

Jeremy jumps up. “Sorry, I have the pain setting on. I completely forgot. Are you okay?”

I rub my shoulder, not entirely sure. “The pain setting?”

“Yeah, I keep it on high. I find I play harder if I'm afraid of getting hurt.”

“I don't doubt it. My shoulder really hurts.” I rub the muscle, trying to understand. “But how can a game make real pain? I don't get it.”

“It's the electrode. Your brain believes.”

I stare into the jungle in front of me. The trees are both beautiful and scary now that I know the enemy can hurt me. He double taps the platform and the game starts to shut down.

“No, not yet. I want to try one more time.”

“Let me change the settings first.” He grabs the game controller off the arm of the couch.

“Just leave the pain on for now.”

I tap the game on myself and pump the barrel of my gun to reload. A snake slithers over my foot, but I shake it away, not losing focus. I scan everywhere, crouching low as I move through the trees. A glint above me, then I whip my gun up and fire. The image
of a man falls through me and disappears from around my feet. Two more pop out of nowhere. I shoot one in the head, but the other hits me in the stomach. I cradle my injury for a moment and then start to move on. I'm concentrating so hard, Jeremy stepping in front of me is a shock. I'm startled enough that I fire my transparent gun at him.

He double taps the platform. Game over. “I can't watch this,” he says.

“Hey, I wasn't doing that bad!”

“It's not that. I just can't watch you getting hurt. It's different when I play. Seeing you get shot is just…wrong. If I witness you getting hit one more time, I'll have to dive in and knock you off the platform.”

“That would probably hurt more than what the game delivers.”

He laughs, but he still sounds bothered. “I've got medicine,” he says, disappearing into the bathroom.

He returns with the tube and motions me to the couch. I sit facing away from him and he lowers the edge of my tank-top. My lower back is still covered. “This is where the first one hit you, right?”

“Yeah, I didn't dodge very well. It still really hurts. Amazing.”

“I'm sorry.” He sounds unhappy.

“Why? I like the game. Thanks for letting me play a round.”

“Next time, no pain setting for you.”

“I thought you said it makes you play harder.”

I glance at him over my shoulder and he shrugs. “I've changed my mind.” He touches my injury gently with the cream and in an instant the pain is replaced with a fuzzy, warm sensation. Good stuff.

“Wait a second. If the pain is all in my head, why does the medicine work?”

He turns the tube over and shows me. It's just a warming lotion. “But you feel better, right?”

“Give me that.” I read the ingredients and there's nothing special. “Huh. I feel like I should've just been able to think myself out of that.”

“Well, next time you can try imagining the pain setting is on.” I shove his arm and he leans back, laughing. “Okay, okay. But I can't promise the game system will be set up next time you stop by.”

The coffee table has a fake wood diagonal pattern. I trace the edge with my finger.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“I wanted to talk to you about the date,” I say, gathering my courage.

“I had a great time with you, Monet. You don't have to say anything.”

Oh, God, this is hard. I want him to like me so bad, but—“I, uh, dropped down in the water bec—”

“Hey, I didn't mean to rush you.”

“Jeremy, I have Fluxem.” My heart stops, waiting for his reaction. Dreading the next words out of his mouth. This is the end. I'll never see Jeremy again.

“Fluxem?” He pauses for a long second. “Like, the open sores and stuff?”

I want to be able to say no. But. “Yeah, I have symptoms.”

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks over at the video game platform.

I hold my breath and concentrate on the pounding in my ears. I don't know what to say. “I can go now. I just, uh…”
wanted your money.

“So that's why you didn't let me kiss you?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, you didn't have to stop. I've been vaccinated.”

“Those vaccines aren't a hundred percent. You're not supposed to risk infection.” I look down at my lap.

He pauses for a few seconds. “But it is curable, and so far the cases of Fluxem coming back are rare.”

“Yeah.” I don't look up.

Another long pause. “So, where are these sores?” He looks me over, focusing on my exposed skin.

I'm shaking all over, embarrassed. “I've got one on my back.”

“Can I see it?”

“I'd rather not show you.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretches. I'm the most awkward person in the world. Why did I come into a rockstar's room and confess that I'm diseased?
Great plan, Monet.
We're sitting facing each other on the couch, both looking down.

“Well, you don't smell,” he says in a lighter tone of voice.

“Thanks.” I blink my eyes rapidly to keep from crying.

Then he touches my hand lightly. “I'm not disgusted or anything.”

But you said it, so you had to be thinking it.

“You should probably get the cure really soon. Did you read that new study they put out? The disease mutates when left inside the host for too long. After a while the cure is less effective.”

My throat closes up and all of a sudden every bone in my body aches from the sores that I am now convinced are eating away at me. “What do you mean by less effective?”

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.”

“Too late, I'm freaking out here.”

He pats my shoulder. “Just go get the cure after the show is over. I'm sure another week won't matter.” He shifts back away from me on the couch. “So, tell me what you're looking for in a guy?”

“Don't even bother, Jeremy. I know I just freaked you out.”

“I was just surprised. Not many people I know get to the point of having symptoms.”

In other words, he doesn't know anyone as poor as me. I swallow down my thoughts of impending death and try to re-find my strength.

He reclines back on the couch. “Let's just talk,

okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” I bite my lip and breathe deep through my nose. He didn't offer money. What am I supposed to do now?

He smiles. “The question was, what kind of guy do you like?”

I try to imagine my life without Fluxem. Hell, to answer this question I need to be a different person entirely. “Do you want honesty?”

“Always.”

“Okay. I'll try here. But it's not a topic I spend a lot of time dwelling on. I've been focused on just surviving, making a niche for myself—”

“Are you stalling?” He pushes a wave of brown hair off his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Uh, huh. Out with it. What are these mysterious qualities?”

“I want a guy who gets me and my art. Someone who's not afraid of the world and willing to stand up for people. There were these guys at my high school that were so jacked in all the time. Cell phone feed in one ear, music in another, and then they go to ask you out. Even when they're standing in front of me asking for a date, I'm half ignored. How can I be expected to want to make out, when they can't even pay attention?” My face feels hot and my teeth clench.

“Sounds like you knew a bunch of stupid guys.”

“I was kind of beginning to think most people are more involved with their own lives than making
relationships work. The contestants on the show are different, though. The girls are hyper-focused on you.”

He flops his head back against the cushion. “Don't remind me. But seriously, Monet, there are real guys out there that will give you the attention you deserve.”

I stare down at the carpet.

“Would you let me kiss you, now that I know about the Fluxem thing?”

“Uh, uh. You mean now?”

He drops his head. “Um. No. I mean anytime you wanted to.”

“Oh.” I think that was an offer, but how can I think about kissing right now? All I can think of is these symptoms that are probably getting worse while I sit here, and I need the money, and I can't bear to straight out ask him because I like him. Shit. I. Like. Him. “I've never been kissed.”

He straightens up, eyebrows high with disbelief. “Never?”

“No.”
I'm pathetic.

“How the hell did you catch it in the first place?”

“Hey, it's not just a kissing disease.”

“I didn't mean anything by the comment. Just most people report being infected through sexual contact.”

“Well, that isn't me.” I shake my head, defeated. A familiar wash of anger covers me. “A few years ago this girl and her friends jumped me outside of school. I don't even know what the hell I ever did to her. Looked at her wrong? Or maybe a guy she liked looked at me. Who knows? Her friends grabbed me and held me down while she beat the crap out of me. But it was her spitting on me in the end that gave me Fluxem. I don't even think she knew she was infecting me, because she never bothered to heckle me at school about it afterward.”

“Holy shit. That's messed up.”

“Yeah, that's when I took up mixed martial arts. I figure I need to be able to protect myself better if I'm going to survive this life.”

I'm waiting for him to make the next logical jump.
If you caught Fluxem years ago, why do you still have it? Why didn't you get the trio of shots that cures the disease?
Then I would say, “I don't have the money or health insurance.” Then he would offer to pay. If I ask, he'll think I'm using him. Is that what I'm trying to do? I told him the truth. Anything more is wrong. I know it. I dismiss the thoughts from my head. Or at least, try really hard. I'll find a way. I still have a chance to win the prize money. He knows I have Fluxem and he still wants to kiss me. That's a victory, isn't it? But will he feel the same when he sees the mark? When it spreads?

He ruffles his hand through his hair. “Do you want more ‘medicine' for where the bullet hit your stomach?” His voice is light and joking, but he passes me the tube instead of rubbing any more cream on me. I guess he doesn't want to touch me now that he knows. I push the tube of cream away. I want to kick the wall in frustration. I cross the room quickly, trying to escape before I do anything stupid, like cry.

Jeremy rushes after me and places his hand on the door, holding it closed. “Will you wait a minute?”

I stand there clenching my jaw tight to keep any emotion from leaking out.

He stares down at me. I can see his face without lifting mine all the way up. “I meant to tell you during our date. What you said about my music in the interview…about the quiet. I wanted you to know that I feel exactly the same way. Like music blocks all the noise and stress of the world. But I could never phrase it like you did.”

I raise my eyes slightly. “Your music is brilliant.”

He looks off to the side and shifts back and forth on his feet. His hand caresses my jaw and he angles my face up. We're staring at each other and his eyes are a deep, warm brown. I'm in a daze. Then his fingers drop away. He takes a step back and shakes his head. “Good night, Monet.”

“Good night, Jeremy.” I close the door behind me, smiling.

BACK IN THE room, I analyze every minute of the video game almost-date. The eye contact and the comment about the music must mean he likes me. But then there's the Fluxem confession. Did he not care because that's how a politically correct person is supposed to react? When he thinks more about the actual symptoms, will he be turned off? I rub the spot on my back, wincing at the pain and wetness on my fingertips. Disgusting.

I climb in bed. I'm not imagining this, right? There is a connection between Jeremy and me. I crush my pillow in my fists and flip back and forth. He wants to kiss me. Does he want to kiss all the contestants? Did the studio make him give Praline that bracelet? Maybe Brie was right and the designer paid for a spot on the show. I fall asleep with one thought repeating.

I want to win.

In my dream, Jeremy is poor like me. When he cups my chin in his hand, I feel calluses and smell motor oil. We lay together on a thin cot and the wall behind us shakes as a shuttle passes by. I place my hand over his heart and I feel his music radiating through my palm. I even hear the sounds of his voice and the ocean in my ears. “Do you like this song? I wrote it for you,” he says, and then his lips touch mine. I smile through the kiss and press against him.